


Of A Feather

by happygolovely



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood and Torture, Body Horror, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Codependency, Consensual Violence, Cutting, Declarations Of Love, Dubious Science, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episodic Narrative Structure, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loving Dissection, M/M, Manic Episode, Mental Instability, Murder, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Purple Prose, Romanticizing Things That Shouldn't Be Romanticized, Unhealthy Relationships, mutual obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 11:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12982974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happygolovely/pseuds/happygolovely
Summary: Oswald is going to ruin him for anyone else. He can hardly wait.





	Of A Feather

Innocuous enough at first glance. Oswald ran his finger down the feather, bright emerald stark against the black brim of his hat. It didn’t appear to be poisoned, nor did it possess any hallucinogenic properties. Nothing more than a harmless novelty.

 

There was no such thing in his line of work. Only messages. Threats. Ruffled feathers.

 

The lack of imagination was truly disheartening. The caliber of crime in this city was reaching a steep decline. Although not especially grieved by the loss of former colleagues, a joint funeral should be arranged. The death of civility needed to be marked.

 

His reign unchallenged. This should have pleased him.

 

Oswald found his life rather devoid of pleasure as of late.

 

The feather was distasteful. Garish. It clashed dreadfully with the decor and stood in stark defiance of all good sense. He could feel himself developing a fondness for it on the spot.

 

It needed to be disposed of quickly along with its sender. The feather twirled through his fingers as he contemplated the most suitable form of punishment. Stuffing the feather down their throat and watching them choke on it wouldn’t do.

 

This required a more delicate touch.

 

Someone needed to be reminded of their place. Gotham is for the birds and no one will take it from him. He pours himself another glass of sherry and raises it to his enemy.  

 

Whoever they were, they had all of his attention. They would come to regret that.

* * *

 

The feather made it’s way from his hat into his pocket. He finds himself carrying it everywhere. Smoothing it down when he’s feeling anxious, accentuating a gesture with a green flourish.

 

To his delight, he discovers it’s not just a simple feather. Pressing down on the center could reveal various uses. Quill, dagger, lock-pick. Marvelously useful. Ingenious really.

He plunges it into the chest cavity of his former employee and notices with glee that it can be sectioned off into prongs for maximum discomfort.

 

He wipes blood off his instrument, gratified by the ease of the task. Sturdy little thing.

 

Not his usual fare, really he prefers blunt force trauma above anything else. Still he can’t help admiring it’s surgical quality, not unlike a scalpel. Durable, deadly, divine.

 

He feels a covetous joy that something so rare and perfect belongs to him.

* * *

 

Whoever designed this must know him exceptional well. It seems perfectly crafted to his tastes and anticipated his needs. Even now he was still unlocking hidden features, discovering new facets to cherish.

 

Not a threat but a gift. Not an enemy but an admirer.

 

Oswald was cautious in labeling them as such although no ulterior motives presented themselves.

 

No card, no accompanying message or request for a meeting. Not a bribe either.

 

Someone simply wanted him to have it.

 

The last person who had given him a gift without strings or conditions was his mother.

 

It wasn’t anything elaborate. A bag of caramels with crinkly golden wrappers. His mother had been buying them for him since he was a child. She claimed they didn’t cost much but then she always said her boy deserved the best. He found them several months ago at a confectioner’s in the diamond district. How did his mother ever manage to afford such a thing?

 

He bought a bag and took it home, twisting open the wrapper with satisfaction.  

 

It tasted of ash and dust.

 

This feather, this offering was not simple nor careless.  Every twist and turn, every intricate aspect spoke of long deliberation. A declaration of intent.

 

He holds it in his hands and his mouth fills with caramel.

* * *

 

Nothing was ever that simple. No gift came without a tag.

 

The receipt came in the long, lithe form of one Edward Nygma. He never stops talking never. His hands can’t stop moving either. He seems to exist in perpetual motion, a nervous hover or a sharp smile. More teeth than warmth.

 

No, no that wasn’t right. Ed was so warm, so loving and gentle.

 

You had to know where to look for it. The warmth that shined through his eyes, his thoughts.  Radiated out from him with such brilliance. Lightning in a green bottle.

 

Oswald has never caught fireflies but he imagines this is how it would feel. To hold something so precious and extraordinary in your hands. To know it could never be yours.

 

If Ed wasn’t the insect, perhaps it was him. Pinned against the wall. Thousands of butterflies fluttering under the microscope of Ed’s attention.

 

There were worse places to be.

 

It seemed strange that anyone had ever accused Ed of being cold. On the contrary, his very presence engulfs Oswald in such heat he can hardly breathe. 

He can’t look at him directly any more, only cautious glances out of the corner of his eye.

 

Edward Nygma threatens to eclipse him body and soul. Oswald doesn’t care.

* * *

 

The feather scarcely left his hands until Ed arrived. He used it for everything. Now it moves between them. Sitting in Oswald’s lap during a stressful meeting. Tucked behind Ed’s ear as he fills out reports. Lodged in the shoulder blade of a chauffeur who offers Oswald a hand into the car. Pity is a luxury he could never afford.

 

It doesn’t feel like pity when Ed’s hand rests gently in the crook of his arm as he leads him down a snowy path or through a puddle. Ed takes off his coat and lays it over the water before Oswald steps through. His hand at the small of his back.

 

The tip of the quill on Ed’s tongue as he chases the ink. A splatter of black on Ed’s cheek as he corrects the inaccuracies in Sunday's newspaper. He draws big circles over the obituaries and proudly claims them as his own. He cuts out the clippings and hangs them in their office. Oswald tells him to take up scrap-booking, his face halfway between a sneer and a smile.

 

It’s nice.

 

Best of all is this: the feather in his hands transformed from a blade to a brush. Oswald watches as Ed’s canvas falls apart inch by inch. Crimson and chrome and salt in the air. The man is crying. Ed is laughing. The sound cuts through the air. Enraptures and surrounds him.

 

Oswald could happily drown in that sound.

 

Best of all is this: the feather in his hands as Oswald frantically sketches out his design. Glistening counter tops, shelves up to the ceilings, sweeping archways. Littered with so many secret nooks and crannies. Oswald leads a blindfolded Ed into his new laboratory, new sanctuary.

 

“ _Beautiful._ ” Ed whispers, solemn and fervent as a vow.

 

* * *

 

Ed presses him down onto the couch, the feather on his hip. Oswald can’t stop laughing, has never laughed like this. He begs for mercy but Ed is relentless in his attack. He will steal all the laughter out of his body, all of the joy.

 

_mine mine mine i’m the only one who gets to see you like this no one else can take you apart like i can and you love it don’t you love every minute of it because it doesn’t matter if i’m torturing you just as long as i’m touching you._

 

It would be so easy to press him down further. To pull him apart. Reach into his lungs and taste his breath. Ed has never wanted to consume someone this thoroughly before. He understands now what drives a person to cannibalism. It’s not enough, it never could be. He could carve off his smile and carry it around in his pocket but that’s not a kiss. Not even close.

Oswald’s laugh bright and ringing in his ears. It sounds like church bells.

It sounds like benediction.

 

* * *

“Why the feather?” Oswald asks one day when the house is quiet and Ed’s mind is slow. It’s early, too early for anything other than marmalade and toast. No riddles between them.  

 

“Feather. In. Your. Cap.” Ed mutters into his tea, voice sharp and smooth as sea glass.

 

Not a morning person. Barely even a person.

 

“Beg your pardon?” Oswald looks irritated. Fractured thoughts, presented without context tend to do that to him. He always prefers the full picture.

 

“Presented as an award or commendation. A signifier of power or station. A new feather for each enemy slain.” Ed smiles winningly. “You are the hunter my friend, not the hunted.”

 

His approval sits nicely on Oswald’s shoulders, it always has but this? Before they even meet, before they even spoke - such kind eyes.

 

No one has ever seen him the way he does.

 

Ed spoons an obscene amount of sugar into his tea. Oswald winces.

 

He craves sweetness and there’s not a drop of caramel left in him to share.

 

Ed steeples his fingers together looking serious. There’s a jitteriness to his movements that hasn’t been there in months. He wants to soothe the tension out of his sharp lines.

 

He doesn’t have that right. Still there must be something he can do. He reaches across the table and takes his hand. Ed stares at their hands in shock, he starts to pull back but Ed grips tight.

 

“What binds two together but touches only one?” He says absentmindedly, tracing the lines of Oswald’s hand lingering on his ring finger. “Oswald, I need you to understand the depths of my regard. You are the dearest friend I have ever had -”

 

He squeezes his hand. “As you are mine.”

 

Ed smiles faintly. “Yes. Yes, I am yours.” Breathes deep. “Utterly and completely yours. Oswald, I am in awe of you. I-I adore you.”

 

There’s a clatter as Oswald’s teacup drops to the floor. Shatters.

 

They jolt from their chairs instantly, fumbling to pick up the pieces, hands brushing.

 

Oswald swears as he cuts himself on a jagged edge. Ed holds his wrist, fingers on his pulse.

 

It stutters. It sings.

 

Ed slowly raises his hand to his lips.

 

Kisses it. Once. Twice. The center of his palm. The freckle on his thumb. Calluses and scars.

 

He reaches the cut and marvels. He has wanted to see inside his skin for so long.

 

Blood like salted caramel, thick and luscious. Ed barely suppress a groan.

 

Oswald squirms. Unsettled and unraveled.  

 

Ed holds him down more firmly and swirls his tongue into the cut.

 

His eyes go wide. He stops squirming.

* * *

 

The soprano’s voice warbles through the air lamenting her lost love. She throws herself off a cliff, her body torn against the rocks as the ocean swallows her down. Her young lover, dives to her side and gathers her into his arms. Her black feathers transform, he finally sees the swan underneath.

 

He turns on the imposter, the temptress who stole his beloved’s face.

She runs, he pins her to the ground. Snaps her neck.  

 

A fitting end, certainly. Oswald raises his opera glasses, hoping to catch a better glimpse of the spectacle. He turns to Ed, a cutting remark at the ready.

 

He finds an empty seat beside him.

 

It takes him some time to get down the stairs. He grits his teeth and exchanges brief nods with his fellow patrons. He finally finds him outside the theatre in an alleyway.

 

Ed pulls at his tie, wrapping it around his fists and tugging it tighter. Tighter.

 

Oswald approaches him slowly.

 

Pulls an antique cigarette case from his pocket. His father’s inheritance.

Cheap cigarettes from a drug store. His mother’s legacy.

 

He leans up against the alley wall, the tail of his tuxedo up against the brick.

His leather loafers soaked in god knows what.

 

Says nothing of it, lights his cigarette. They stand there for a moment, the sounds of the city between them.

 

Ed collapses, strings cut loose. His cheek pressed on top of Oswald’s head.

 

He slides an arm around his waist to better support him, blows smoke rings into the cold air. Offers him a drag.

 

Ed shakes his head.

“No. No thank you, I - I don’t like the taste.” He whispers this confession quickly, body tense.

 

He looks so small all of a sudden. So young.

 

Oswald nods and stamps it out under his feet.

 

“You don’t have to do that for me. You’re enjoying yourself.”

 

He shrugs carelessly.

 

“It’s a filthy habit of mine, should have quit years ago.” His smile brittle. “Still gutter trash after all.” He laughs it off, a hollow point in his chest.

 

He has cultivated such an air of sophistication, it’s easy to forget how vulgar and base he can be.

It will never be enough. His insatiable greed is not for power or prestige.

 

For transmutation. Alchemy is a pseudoscience, Ed has told him as much. Still he tries.

 

Tries to turn his sorry, sordid self into something golden. An impossible, thankless task.

 

Lost in self reflection he doesn’t notice the harsh noise of disgust from the man beside him.  

 

Ed’s finger lifts up his chin as he stares at him. Looks all the way through him, clear as glass. His hand cradles his jaw.

 

“You. Are. Exquisite.” He enunciates each word furiously as if he can’t believe he needs to say this. He gestures broadly back to the theatre, to Gotham’s elite. “They aren’t worth the dirt beneath your fingernails.”

 

 _I appear to be a most-fragile thing,_ _  
_ _The coveted prize of any great king;_

_Yet still there’s little that can break me,_

_All that pressure but serves to make me;_

_The weight of the world upon me lies,_  
_Buried in dark, far from men’s eyes,_  
_When I am pulled from the belly of night,_  
None can equal my reflection of light.

 

“What am I?” He asks. Oswald can hardly breathe.

 

“Diamond. In the rough, I suppose.”

 

“You have rough edges certainly, I’m rather fond of them.”  

 

“Is that really what you think of me?”

 

Ed presses their foreheads together. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He looks down at him fondly. “You’re a gem.”

 

Oswald can’t help but kiss him, pulling him down by his tie and shoving him up against the alley wall. Let him get better acquainted with that roughness he so enjoys.  Ed makes a muffled, happy noise against his mouth before pulling away.  

 

“Oswald, I can’t-”

 

_stupid stupid you are so stupid of course he doesn’t want you who ever could_

 

“-the taste it’s just so disconcerting, should have brought my mints. Let’s go home, you can brush your teeth.”

 

Oswald surges with hope.

 

“Take me home.”

* * *

 

He walks through the labyrinth. Doubles back and retraces his steps. Two turns to the left, right, left again. Back where he started. He takes a white feather out of his pocket and places it at the center of the maze. As he walks away, vines creep over the feather and pull it down into the earth.

 

He turns a corner and hits a wall. Another and another. They press in on him from every side. He frantically crawls up the side, fists full of grass. The sky falls out from under him and he falls.

 

Down.

 

Down.

 

Down.

 

He stands at the start once more, moss green beneath his bare feet. Laughter echoes through the air. Harsh and happy.

 

_eddie boy come out and play_

 

_no no no no no no not you anyone but you_

 

He runs fast through the passageway and slides between walls, a hole opens up for him and he slithers through. Dark musty earth swallows him whole, dirt in his mouth. His eyes turn dark and his bones decay. He pushes his glasses back up against his face and his nose falls off into his hand. He throws it to the ground and it scuttles away.

 

The dirt compresses around him until he’s buried alive. Crickets sing in his ears, moonshine drowns him and cigarettes burn into his spine. Bones breaking and reforming in an instant.

 

He beats his fists against metal doors, wooden splinters in his hands and iron bars wrap around his arms and hold him into place. Screams until his mouth runs dry. Screams more.

 

His body shakes with the sounds it cannot make.

 

The bars sink into his flesh cutting through him and settling down into his skeleton.

 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a feather.

 

It spins and twists in his hand like a compass. The north star guiding him home.

He opens his eyes.

 

Oswald smiles down at him and presses a kiss to his forehead.

* * *

 

The humming starts up again. Songs pressed up against his cheeks in the morning, trilled softly against his ear at night. The white noise of Ed speaking to himself, completely unaware of his audience.

 

It lulls him to sleep most nights the quiet sounds of Ed’s mind, too beautiful to be contained to his body even in sleep. Sometimes he thinks he will wake one morning to find Ed has left his body in the night, all that remains a chattering mouth pressed up against the pillow.  

 

His head will roll off his body, free to pursue its own interests. Ed has always been so disconnected from his physical self and one day they will no longer be able to coexist.

 

Oswald ties a green ribbon around his throat to keep his head from falling off.  

 

He doesn’t seem to mind. When he gets like this he doesn’t notice anything that isn’t Oswald.

 

The humming gets louder. It builds for days, a storm cloud hanging over his head. Electricity crackles through the air. Oswald wisely chooses to keep his distance.

 

He only catches snippets of the conversation Ed is having with himself. Three days in the laboratory, frantically writing all over every scrap of paper he can find. He runs out of space and starts writing on his own skin. Forcing the point down until it breaks.

 

He runs out of ink on the second day. He finds alternative methods.

 

The walls covered in formulas and equations that will take Oswald a lifetime to understand.

That’s alright. Translating him will be a privilege and a pleasure.

 

Dark rings under his eyes, mussed hair from all the places he has torn it up. Ed will rip himself apart if left alone. He pulls him up from the desk where he is huddled, arms pressed against himself as he rocks in place.

 

He takes his face in his hands, wiping away dried tears. He’s over heated, a machine that’s been left running too long. He should have intervened sooner.

 

Oswald is already planning to install cameras in the mansion for security purposes but makes a note to accelerate his timetable. He needs constant supervision even if he says otherwise.

 

He never should have trusted Ed’s safety in anyone’s hands but his own.

 

He guides him into the bathroom and Ed comes willingly, still muttering fanatically under his breath. He sits on the tile as Oswald turns on the tub, letting cold water flow through. A shock to the system, hopefully it will be enough to break through the fog.

 

Oswald removes his jacket and shoes, places his cufflinks on the marble counter. He sinks down into the tub and waits with open arms.

 

Ed crashes into him all at once, rocks upon the shore. Arms wrap desperately around him as he clings to his waistcoat. Compulsively tracing the patterns with shaking hands. Legs tangled together underneath the water, Oswald’s hand in his hair as he whispers sweet nothings.

 

 _it’s alright it’s alright i’ve got you i’ve got you_ _breathe can you do that for me that’s it my dear you’re doing so well so good so proud of you_

 

_oswald oswald oswald i’m sorry i’m sorry i didn’t mean to worry you please forgive me it’s just so loud so loud all of the time_

 

_you don’t have to explain yourself thank you for coming back to me thank you for coming home nothing’s going to hurt you here you’re mine no one gets to touch what is mine do you understand they can’t take you from me_

 

Ed sighs into his collarbone, pleased and content. The cold water turns warm. Shiny iridescent bubbles floating through the air. The colors shift and reflect with the light. Purple. Green.

 

Somewhere in between.  

 

A bubble pops on the edge of his glasses and he startles. Oswald laughs at him. Ed’s eyes narrow and he pushes his head into the water. Oswald drags him down under the currents with him.

 

They laugh into each other’s mouths and descend to the bottom of the abyss.

* * *

 

Hours later they lie in bed thoroughly intertwined. Oswald presses the feather against his shoulder idly tracing patterns with no discernible purpose. He wills his skin to become more sensitive so he can feel every individual scratch.

 

_O_

 

_S_

 

_W_

 

A signature. A mark of ownership. He shivers in anticipation. He yearns for scarification, for a name carved into every cavity of him.

 

Oswald is going to ruin him for anyone else. He can hardly wait.

 

Presses his hand down on the quill till it breaks his skin. Tiny rivers of red flow down his spine and he pushes up against the metal. He wants to enjoy this.

 

When it’s finished Oswald takes his hand so he can feel every letter cut into his shoulder.

 

He grins brilliant and triumphant.

 

Turns over and looks into the full length mirror across from their bed. No shadow self to mock him, just Oswald’s ruffled hair and his own bright smile.

 

Oswald hands him the feather and presents his own wrist. Ed frowns in confusion for a moment.

 

“Are you certain? Flexor tendons located in the wrist are very sensitive. An injury in this area could be debilitating to your fine motor functions.”   

 

Oswald waves away his concern. “I’ve lived through worse.”

 

“Everyone will see it.”  

 

Something feral and dark flashes across his face. He nods.

 

“Good. I want them to.”  

 

The blade caresses his wrist, gentle and methodical.

 

He takes his time, it’s still over far too quickly for his liking.

 

_E. Nygma_

 

Oswald inspects his work critically. Ed frets.

 

“You’re perfect. I can’t wait to show you off.” He coos to those darling little letters.

 

He is already gloating over his victory, intending to display it as frequently as possible.

 

Ed suddenly wishes his mark were in a more prominent place.

 

 _sleeves rolled up during meetings_  

 

_flashing the makeshift tattoo in front of disbelieving eyes_

 

_imperious gestures, just the faintest bit of letters shown from under the cuff of a jacket_

 

_someone wants me someone wants me i belong to someone_

* * *

 

He finally returns to the comfort of his laboratory three weeks later. Oswald all but barred him from entering, for fear of a relapse. Ed tells him he need not worry.

 

Location hardly matters when running from oneself.

 

The work waits for him, patient and understanding. There’s something endlessly reassuring about the repetition, the rituals involved. He loses himself in the rhythm of it, mind expanding and heart settling. It quiets something restless in him.

 

Until it doesn’t.

 

Then it’s a mad dash, a flurry. A manic race for euphoria and discovery, time is of the essence. His hands shake as he pours the chemicals but he hardly notices. He has to keep moving, doesn’t dare think what will happen when he stops.  

 

Hubris gets him in the end, as it always does. Wax melting as he falls.  

 

He comes to at his desk beaker in hand, best just to put that down. Straightens his goggles and sighs. That’s at least another two days work and he can’t replicate the results if he doesn’t remember what he’s done. His notes are nearly incomprehensible, some mad scribbles about the density of feathers and the melting point of icebergs.

 

What on earth that has to do with biochemistry is anyone’s guess.

 

Rips his notebook apart by the seams, research in tatters.

 

Folds the paper, reshapes it to his whim.

 

A diamond. A swan. An anatomically correct human heart.

 

Knock at the door and he hides the paper in his pocket. The tell tale heart.

 

Very rare are the times Ed doesn’t want Oswald around him.

 

Oswald seems to have a knack for showing up precisely then.

 

He crowds up behind him, arms wrapping around Ed. Slides the microscope away, reaching up to tousle his hair. No product in it today. At home, he wears it loose and disheveled. Oswald loves to tug at his curls and tell him he looks almost thoroughly debauched.

 

Not quite there, let’s get you there shall we?

 

Ed conveniently loses his hair products. Magpie. Always taking things that don’t belong to him.

 

_what’s yours is mine there’s nothing of you left for yourself  you like it that way don’t you? you don’t have to think nothing to fear i’ll look after you i’ll protect you just love me fear me do as i say hang on my every word so malleable so easy i’ve got you all wrapped up and tangled haven’t i what a knot of a boy you are_

 

“Penny for your thoughts.” Oswald asks but it's really more of an order.

 

Don’t test my patience, don’t waste my time.

 

“I’m worth more than that.” Ed says to himself.

 

Oswald turns on a dime, a false bright look on his face.

 

“You couldn’t be more right, you are priceless of course.” Presses a kiss into his hair. “Now are you going to answer me or what.”

 

He leans back into the touch. Treasured. This is how it feels to be treasured beyond compare.

No one has ever valued him as he does.  

 

Ed smiles up at him. “I was thinking of you, actually.”

 

Not surprising really, he thinks of little else these days.

 

It’s unusual for him to remain fixated on something for this long. A rare bird, indeed.   

 

“All bad things I hope.”

 

“Positively wicked. Care for a practical demonstration?”

 

“I am not opposed. Anything to satisfy that curiosity of yours.”

 

Oswald has barely finished speaking before Ed turns around, pulling him down into his lap.

 

Thrown off balance, Oswald nearly falls over and Ed quickly catches him. They can’t stop laughing and Ed is so light he could float away. Only the warm weight under his hands keeping him steady.  

 

Oswald presses small, soft kisses at the corner of his mouth. Ed chases after him only to be refused. Pushed back down into the chair. He gets up and dusts off his suit. His hair is a wreck.

 

They match then. Ed’s been a wreck since they met.

 

“As much as I enjoy your enthusiasm, there is a time and place for such things.” He looks pointedly at the deadly chemicals all around them, the delicate equipment. “Can I tempt you away from your first love?”

 

_oswald sweeping the beakers and vials to the side glass falling to the floor as he backed ed up against the counter stepping between his legs papers scattered around them let’s try something new my dear where are those latex gloves of yours excellent hand me that scalpel where shall i make the first incision you want to be dissected don’t you i’ll make it good for you painless you won’t feel a thing i have your heart already what else can i take from you_

 

“We can stay here if you like.”

 

Ed snaps out of his reverie suddenly.

 

“That’s not necessary, we’ll just -get out of here, that’s fine. Take me back to bed, take me anywhere that you like. Anyway that you like”

 

“I appreciate that and we will definitely be revisiting that at a later time.” Oswald smiled knowingly, already counting his future victories. “For now, let’s stay here. You wouldn’t happen to have any medical equipment would you? A scalpel perhaps.”

 

Ed rushes to him suddenly, holding him feverishly. Gratefully.“You’re perfect, you know that? It’s like you were made for me.” This synchronicity between them, two minds in perfect harmony.

 

Oswald sighs against him. Fond and indulgent.

 

“My thoughts exactly.”

 

* * *

 

Innocuous enough at first glance. The black little fish-eye camera hardly bigger than a pinprick. Ed disables it easily enough, turning it over in his hand and sliding it under a magnifying glass. No sign of a manufacturer or other telling features. He affixes the camera back into place, reestablishing the connection and continues on with his experiment as if nothing happened.

 

The keen sting of betrayal cuts him to the quick. This invasion of their home will not be without repercussions. It’s safe to assume all communications are being monitored, so he will hold off on informing Oswald until his return home.

 

Ed spends the rest of the hour developing a cryptogram affixed to significant phrases he will recognize.

 

He intends to sweep the entire mansion for monitoring equipment but first there’s the matter of their office. It’s the base of operations, both criminal and domestic. He needs to ensure it hasn’t been compromised.

 

Evaluates the room, noting nothing out of the ordinary. Sits at his desk and leans back in his chair, carelessly twirling the feather-quill in his hands.

 

Sorts through his drawers and finds nothing, even in the secret compartments. He turns to Oswald’s desk and comes up empty there as well. Looks through Oswald’s files, searching for the name of an adequate investigator.

 

He needs to launch an investigation into all of their associates and while of course he’d prefer to do it all himself, there is some work to outsource.

 

Fingers pause as he comes across the name of a home security corporation.

 

Pulls up their financial records, the real ones.

 

The cameras were purchased on the 17th. The day of his incident.

 

The punch line nipping at his heels, the inevitable fall.  

 

Hubris gets them in the end, as it always does.  

 

He sits with his stillness and sinks into it. The piercing silence of a whirling mind stopped cold. The colors fade to grey, dull and monotonous. A flicker of green at the edge of his perception.  

 

Knock at the door like a grenade pin dropping.

 

What’s black and white and needs to _back the fuck off?_

 

_oswald opens the door and ed pins him up against it lifting him up off his feet the tie around his throat slithers up to strangle him and ed presses their lips together in a cold, cruel mockery of a kiss is this what you wanted so badly is this what you would kill for_

 

“Honey, I’m home.” Oswald says with a teasing lilt, no doubt amused by the domesticity of it all.

 

The feather in his hands breaks, black ink spilling over his hands.

 

Rage. Devastation. Terror. Confusion.

 

Ed’s vision goes blurry and he takes off his glasses. Hot salt burning through him.

 

He doesn’t notice he’s crying until a monogrammed  handkerchief is handed to him.

 

“There, there dear. We can fix this, can’t we? It’s just a feather after all, no need to fuss.”  

 

Oswald on his knees, next to him wiping the black ink off his hands. Politely ignoring the tears in his eyes.

 

Small mercies, at least.

 

Their hands are both stained now, Oswald doesn’t seem to mind.

 

He slides the glasses gently back onto Ed’s face, tucking the frames behind his ears.

 

The world comes back into focus and Ed is overwhelmed with gold.

 

Oswald is resplendent, radiant as ever. His golden brocade suit shines and shimmers with diamond buttons and intricate pattern work.

 

“You look very…” He hesitates just a second too long.

 

Oswald rises to his feet, in a move that is pure self consciousness disguised with flair.

“It’s terribly gauche, of course. I thought you would like it.” Deflects as he always does, with insults and disdain. It shouldn’t be so horribly charming.

 

“Regal. You look very regal.” Blinding, stunningly attractive. Staring into the sun.

 

He should know better that to walk with this man in the dark. He will lead him into an eclipse.

 

Oswald smiles, shy and splendid. Always golden, no matter what he does.

 

Oswald lifts him up from the chair and wraps his arms around him. Ed stiffens at the contact.

 

The scent of lilies in the air cloying and saccharine. He can hardly breathe around the hole in his chest. No exit wound. He bites down on his tongue and tastes blood.

 

His arms, a gilded cage.

 

Ed’s wraps himself around him. Clinging, suffocating.

 

Tucks his head under Oswald’s chin and tries not to choke on the blood in his mouth.

 

“What’s wrong, dear?

 

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” His smile is a splinter under his skin.  

 

Ed has all of his attention. He can’t bring himself to regret it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to coronergrey for your insight and encouragement.  
> tumblr: happygoloony


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